Sharp Eyed
by ncfan
Summary: "The sword sings sometimes."


I own nothing.

* * *

"The sword sings sometimes."

Eöl didn't think of himself as the sort of person who could be easily snuck up on, though his son was certainly developing a talent in that area, flitting in and out of the shadows like a small, skittish animal. He suspected that it was rather what he'd looked like at that age. "You can hear it, can't you?"

"Yes." It was probably best, he reflected, not to make eye contact; he could feel the boy's eyes burning holes in the side of his head as it was. "Yes, I can."

His son hovered at his shoulder as Eöl looked for… He wasn't really sure what he was looking for, exactly, not anymore; it was enough, to feel that faint tugging on his mind and push it out, and that alone sapped most of his concentration. Telling him not to had no lasting effect, and he was not yet trying in earnest to pull the doors open. "And Mama can not," Maeglin observed matter-of-factly, staring at him with badly concealed curiosity.

"No, I do not believe so." Eöl wasn't quite as sure about that, but he felt that Aredhel would have mentioned it if she had ever heard such a thing for herself.

"Why?"

"I'm not sure of that." No, Eöl was not sure, but the better question was most likely not why Aredhel couldn't hear, and why Maeglin could.

When he was first learning his craft from them, the Naugrim had warned him not to pour too much of himself into anything he made. It was not wise, they said. Eöl had still been quite young at the time, relatively speaking, and had not really understood the weight of their words. He had nodded, and heeded their advice; being an inexperienced student, it had seemed prudent to listen. However, he'd not taken it to heart.

Anguirel, here, and Anglachel, dwelling in Menegroth, taught him exactly what the Naugrim had meant by the dangers of pouring too much of himself into anything he made. In blunt terms, Eöl had not expected, not even remotely, that either of the two swords could or would possess a voice when they were finished. Anguirel sang, and that was enough in itself, that Anguirel sang, sang in a sexless voice and mercifully not in any voice or language that Eöl could recognize. Anglachel _talked_, and considering exactly what the sword was choosing to whisper in his ear, that was a bit too much.

The only mercy to thatsituation was that apparently no one else could hear Anglachel talking or Anguirel singing. Regardless of what Thingol might have thought, Eöl wasn't exactly unhappy to be asked to hand one of the swords over in return for the lease of Nan Elmoth. Thingol could have the damned thing; it was all Eöl could do to summon a semblance of bitterness in giving it to him. He didn't normally like having to part with his things, but in this case…

No one else had ever seemed to be able to hear the speech of either of the two swords. Melian might have been able to—she had certainly gotten a strange look on her face when she had seen Anglachel—but had never confirmed this herself. Eöl had grown more or less accustomed to Anguirel's intermittent singing, unwanted as it was, and to the fact that he seemed to be the only one who could hear it.

Maeglin had been but a few days old when he himself had first laid eyes on Anguirel, resting then exactly where it did now, up against the wall in a forgotten corner of the room. Eöl had held the small, squirming infant in his arms, and had watched, startled, as his son's gaze had wandered slowly to that same forgotten corner, transfixed at the whispery, tremulous sound that filled the room.

Why could Maeglin hear it too, when previously only his father possessed that ability? Eöl could not say. He couldn't even say whether he found the knowledge comforting or alarming.

"Why does the sword sing?" Maeglin pressed. "Is it because the metal's strange?"

At that, Eöl dropped any last pretense of looking for something in the room and turned to stare sharply at his son.

He still remembered the incident clearly in his mind, though long centuries had passed. To this day, no one was sure what it was; Eöl had heard it described as a falling star, cast down from the heavens, and that seemed an apt enough description. The fallen star, then, had landed close enough to where he was living at the time, in the forest of Region, that the fires were close enough for him to feel the heat and be uncomfortably aware of how close the flames seemed. Of course, the fire had eventually gone out, and there were many who had gone to investigate.

The fallen star was still hot even after the fire had gone out, and the one who reached it first had burned their hands horribly trying to touch it. After a while, Eöl was the only one who would go near the stone, the only one who would look at it or have anything to do with it.

It was made of metal, he'd realized. It was made of iron.

Eöl had told Maeglin none of this. He'd told Aredhel none of this; she wouldn't have known to tell their son. More to the point, Maeglin had never seen Anguirel unsheathed.

"Would you care to explain how you knew that?" Eöl asked quietly.

Maeglin averted his gaze and mumbled something indistinguishable from the faint humming coming from the other end of the room. After a moment of standing there, finally seeming to remember himself, he slipped out into the hall, going as silently as he'd come. Both father and son knew any explanation to be unnecessary. Eöl knew very well how Maeglin had known.

Alone again, Eöl lifted a hand to his forehead and bit back a sigh. He had named his son very well.


End file.
